Painted Wings
by TheSapphireSky
Summary: Anastasia AU- Molly is the last living Romanov. But she doesn't remember. All she knows is there are answers in Paris and Sherlock Holmes can get here there. If they're not killed along the way.
1. Painted Wings

_A/N: I couldn't help myself when this idea for an Anastasia AU popped into my head. Sure, let's put off the multitude of other stories I have yet to finish, and start another one! Why not?! :) Please pardon any and all errors, grammatically and historically, I took many liberties with both Russian and the Romanoff family histories. I own nothing but my own wandering plot bunnies._

* * *

Dust clung to every surface, cobwebs weaving over the scattered paintings, lending a haunted atmosphere to the abandoned palace. The once-polished gold accents in the ballroom were dirty and faded, their luster lost to the years.

Molly ran her finger along the railing as she slowly ascended the staircase, her steps echoing in the cavernous room, and came to a stop below a massive portrait. A family stared down at her, their smiles warm and welcoming. Something tugged in her heart and she tilted her head as she examined the painted family that seemed to look back at her.

The mother, her brilliant red hair piled into a braided bun upon which sat a glittering silver crown and wearing a gown of rich blue with golden threads woven throughout, had rested her gloved hand atop her husband's, which gripped the hilt of his sword. His royal uniform was cut along his strong figure, the only accents a braid of gold looping from one shoulder across his chest to a medal above his heart and a blue sash that crossed his chest and tied at his hip. At their feet, two children stood. The tallest girl came barely to her father's hip, his other hand resting on her shoulder, and wore a dress of soft blue, her brown locks the exact shade as her father's.

But it was the youngest child in the soft yellow dress that brought Molly up short. The girl was perhaps a year younger than her sister, but while the eldest was a mirror image of their father, the youngest was a replica of their mother. Her red hair was a bit darker, but the upturned nose, brown eyes, and soft face were identical. And there was something so familiar about the child that unsettled Molly and she turned away, feeling one of her headaches coming. They always happened when she couldn't remember why something seemed familiar, as though her mind was blocking something painful from her.

Visions of glittering gowns, snippets of orchestral songs, laughter, the tinkling of glasses, and a sea of twirling people crisscrossing in dance flashed through her mind. But each time she tried to follow the memory, the memory vanished, leaving her swimming in a vast sea of unknown loss and pain.

The strength of this headache was making her feel lightheaded and she hurriedly made her way back the way she came. She needed to get to Paris and the lady at the ticket counter had said _William_ at the old palace could help. But he wasn't here, apparently, and she needed to get out. There was something about this place that was familiar, but instead of feeling safe, she felt terrified and knew she needed to leave. Immediately.

She was nearly halfway across the room when a voice bellowed out behind her. 'Hey, you!'

Molly gasped and looked over her shoulder to see a pair of men at the top of the staircase, neither looking too happy to find her here. Panicking, she broke into a run and had just made it to the barred door she'd climbed through when a hand gripped her arm and whirled her about. She immediately began pounding against the firm chest she was being held against.

'Let go of me!' She demanded, but the man simply tightened his grip. His suit was tailored to his form and she absentmindedly blushed when she noticed how his shirt was much more snug that proper fashion dictated.

'Not until you tell me why you are trespassing,' his baritone voice replied.

She stopped her struggles and looked up into the man's heart-stopping eyes. She swallowed and glanced over his shoulder to see the other man, a shorter blond man, approach at a slower pace. 'I…I-I was looking for William.'

The man holding her stiffened and his nose twitched. 'And what do you need from _William?_ '

Molly felt her fear fade and indignant anger rise. 'I told you why I came, now let me go!'

To her surprise, and relief, her arm was released and she stumbled away from the man.

'If you have come for assistance in solving a little domestic dispute, I'm afraid _William_ cannot be bothered to waste his time on such a pitiful case. Be gone with you.'

'Sherlock,' the other man warned tiredly.

Molly drew herself up to her full height. She may be a penniless orphan wearing ratty clothes from the charity bin, but she would not be disrespected by this… this brute!

'I am seeking assistance, _William,_ for an entirely different matter,' she snapped, knowing full well the man who stood before her 'Sherlock' was the William she was looking for. His eyes widened and he blinked in surprise. 'But I see I have come to the wrong place. I merely wanted a way to get to Paris, but now I wouldn't take your help if you came to me on bended knee!'

With a regal lift of her chin, she glared at the man and spun on her heel. She may be clumsy normally, but when someone got her riled up, her confidence grew. She hadn't taken more than three steps away when Sherlock's voice pulled her up short.

'Why Paris?'

Instead of scoffing, he actually sounded interested. Molly fingered the chain holding the pendant hidden beneath her dress. 'Someone has been waiting for me.'

'Who?'

Turning, Molly felt the familiar, empty sorrow of a lonely past envelope her. 'I don't know.'

Sherlock looked her over carefully, as though reading her deepest secrets. He looked over his shoulder at the far end of the room, his eyes landing on the painting of the family. With a nod, he turned to the other man and grinned.

'John, pack your coat tails. We're going to Paris.'

* * *

'Impossible!' James Moriarty railed against the gods, shards of glass shattering around him as he threw vial after vial against the wall, the informant's letter crumpled in his hand. 'She was supposed to be dead, how is this possible?! Moran!'

Pretending not to have been cowering in the corner, Sebastian cautiously approached his boss, wary of the murderous glint in Moriarty's eyes.

'Sebastian, my dear assassin,' Moriarty said in a dangerously soft lilt. 'I don't ask too much of you do I? Kill a man here, behead a woman there; do I ask too much?'

Knowing he was on dangerous ground, Moran shook his head vehemently. 'Of course not, sir.'

'Then explain to me, Sebby, how you could possibly be so incompetent to have MISSED THE CHILD?!' Moriarty screamed, his face contorting in rage. Sebastian knew better than to take a step back.

'She was left for dead along the railway tracks, sir. It was either ensure she was dead or attempt to finish off her grandmother. It seemed unlikely that Margarita had survived. I took my chances.'

Moriarty pursed his lips and nodded as though thinking it over. 'Yet you still managed to fail on both accounts. They are _both alive!_ ' Grabbing the assassin by the collar, Moriarty threw him out of the room. 'The grandmother matters not to me anymore, her grief is sufficient punishment. But the child… Do not return to me until the child is dead. My revenge will not be complete until she is rotting alongside her father!'

* * *

The journey to Paris was long, and the train's steady movement soon lulled Molly to sleep. It wasn't until the train came to a halt at the next station that she slowly came awake, burrowing deeper into the soft wool against her cheek and sighing contentedly. Wait. Train? Wool? Sherlock. Her eyes flashed open and she bolted upright as she remembered the day before and the rush to board the train with the two strange men and felt a horrified blush fill her cheeks when she realized she had been using the curmudgeonly man as a pillow. The detective, as he called himself, merely huffed and straightened his coat firmly with a glare in her direction. Turning her gaze from him, Molly sat up straight and smiled at the other man, John, who sat across from her in the compartment and brushed the wrinkles from her dress.

'Morning.' He smiled warmly. 'Sleep well?'

Molly's blush darkened and she cleared her throat. 'As well as one can on a train while sitting next to the next closest thing to a dead tree.'

'I didn't hear any complaints from you before,' Sherlock interjected with a sniff. 'If anything, going by your snores, you slept more soundly against me than you have in years.'

'Sherlock,' John sighed in disappointment.

'Well, considering I have been sleeping on the wood floor of an overcrowded orphanage for most of my life, I should think you an improvement. Clearly, I was mistaken,' Molly snapped and stood to her feet. 'If you gentlemen will pardon me, I find myself rather hungry and will be in the dining car if you need me.' With a nod, she slid out into the passageway and closed the door behind her more firmly than necessary.

'Well done, you pillock,' John commented when she left.

Sherlock frowned. 'And what did I do? She was the one who insulted me?'

'She's tired, emotionally stressed, and you have done nothing to earn her favor. How do you expect her to act?'

Crossing his arms, Sherlock glowered at the doctor. 'Nicely, for one. I am paying her way to Paris, after all. Though I am reconsidering if it is entirely worth it, if I must suffer her company for the rest of the journey.'

John sighed and shook his head. 'If you can't stand her, then why are you going out of your way (and by that I mean accompanying her to Paris and _dragging me along_ ) to help her?!'

'Because she is the lost tsarevna,' Sherlock replied casually with a shrug.

...

John blinked.

 _What?_

'Sorry? She's… _what?_ '

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'It's obvious, John. She's an orphan with little memory from before she was about 7 or 8 and is the correct age of Princess Margarita. Her hair is the same shade as Tsar Nicholas, but shows hints of the red of his wife, something that must have been prominent when she was a child and darkened with age. Her eyes, nose, and mouth are identical to the Tsaritsa. She suffers from headaches induced by memory recall. She was leaving the palace when we found her because her mind was being assaulted by memories and didn't know how to handle it, causing her pain and panic. The pendant around her neck was a gift from someone, most likely her grandmother, the only remaining member of the Romanoff family, who lives in Paris. Clearly, there is an inscription of some kind upon the pendant that is leading her to Paris.'

Spreading his hands wide, Sherlock sat back with a smug smile, clearly very pleased with himself.

John gaped at the rush of information, accustomed to the deductions of his friend, but this… god, this was so much more than their usual cases. This was changing the history of a still-grieving Russia, rewriting the life of a young woman who had forgotten her family and the travesty that befell them, bringing her back to life after being thought dead for more than a decade.

'Are you going to tell her?' He finally managed to ask.

Sherlock shook his head. 'I do not want to force her to remember. The mind is delicate and she has obviously suffered trauma, both physically and emotionally, that has blocked the painful memories. She will need to address them in her own time, when she is ready. Not before.'

'Right,' John agreed dumbly.

Well, this certainly changed things.


	2. Things I Almost Remember

Molly very nearly stomped her way down the passageway into the dining car. Of all the ungentlemanly things to do, commenting on her snoring! She flushed in embarrassment at the thought.

Sitting down at a small table, swaying with the train's motion, Molly ordered quickly and sipped the cold, ice water the waiter left for her, trying to cool off her temper. That infuriating man had not stopped riling her up since he suddenly decided to take her to Paris, acting as though he was doing her an enormous service. Which, granted, he was. Molly frowned, partly in regret that she hadn't been more grateful to him, but also because she had no idea why he was doing it. His friend, the doctor, was the complete opposite of the detective, both in looks and personality. Molly felt comfortable in his presence. She imagined if she'd had a brother, John would be just like him.

He was more than happy to assist her onto the train, explain to her the process of journeying across the Russian expanse into Western Europe, and treat her kindly. But Sherlock, on the other hand, was an enigma. He cast her off entirely until she said she wanted to go to Paris. His entire demeanor toward her had changed within the space of a few seconds and he very nearly dragged her to the train station.

Molly sighed deeply, resigning herself to the mystery of Sherlock and simply being grateful for his generosity, despite his brashness.

'May I join you, miss?'

Molly coughed on the sip of water she'd taken and stared up in surprise at the handsome man standing by her table. He was about the same build as John, but with shocking auburn hair that hung over his forehead, falling over his piercing green eyes. Molly blinked and looked about, sure he wasn't speaking with her. The man chuckled and sat across from her.

'Yes, I was speaking to you,' his soft voice teased her. He reached his hand over the table in greeting. 'Thomas Thornton, Miss…?'

Molly blushed and hesitantly shook his hand. 'Molly. Just… Molly.'

The corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile. 'I hope you don't consider me too forward, Molly. But I found myself dining alone, as well, and thought it would be nice to have some company.'

'Well, actually-' Molly began, her gut twisting with unease. There was something off-putting about this man.

'How about some of the best wine on the train?' Thomas interrupted and snapped his fingers for the sommelier, one appearing at their table in an instant with a bottle of red liquid in his hands. Molly twisted her fingers in her lap. She didn't want to cause a scene in the crowded carriage, but she didn't want to be near this man; one of her headaches was forming behind her eyes and she knew this man was the reason, there was something familiar about him in a dangerous, uneasy way and she needed to get out.

The sommelier gracefully poured the wine, the liquid swirling in the glasses with the motion of the train, and left them once more. Molly glanced over her shoulder, hoping Sherlock or John had decided to join her.

'Molly, are my attentions unwanted?' Thomas teased, bringing her attention back to him. He raised his glass expectantly toward her in toast. Molly swallowed nervously and eyed her glass of wine. She'd never partaken before, but knew that its effects could dull pain and ease tension in the body. A sip wouldn't hurt, would it?

Her hand shaking slightly, she drew her fingers around the stem and touched the rim to Thomas', the gentle clinking jarring her nerves.

He swirled the liquid in his glass and took a sip, never breaking eye contact with her. Molly copied his actions and hesitantly pressed the glass to her lips, letting the slightly bitter liquid caress her tongue before sliding down her throat.

'Excellent, isn't it?' Thomas sat back in his chair with a pleased smile.

Molly forced a smile and nodded. Her headache was growing stronger and she turned her gaze down, running her finger along the foot of the glass. Thomas was talking, saying something about the quality of the wine, but Molly couldn't focus on his ramblings. She took another sip, growing accustomed to the strange drink. As she set the glass back down, she froze and narrowed her eyes.

Flecks of white powder, nearly invisible, sat just above the wine in the glass, slightly moist and mixing with the alluring liquid. A sudden queasiness gripped her, her senses dulling, and blackness creeping into her sight. Her stomach dropped in horror. The voices around her faded and she could hear the beat of her racing heart as it began pumping furiously as a result of whatever poison had been laced in her drink when she had turned her head. Molly looked up at Thomas, who had stopped talking and was staring at her with a blank expression.

'What… what did you do?' She whispered.

'Moriarty sends his regards,' he said plainly.

Molly stood so quickly, her chair tipped over and the loud crash brought the attention of the rest of the dining car, the sudden silence only accentuating the loud thudding of Molly's heart. That name, _Moriarty_ , sent deadly terror straight through her, as though by saying his name, one was invoking the spirit of the Devil himself. Molly backed up, stumbling over the fallen chair, before turning and striding from the room, pushing past a waiter carrying a tray on his shoulder.

'Miss, your meal!' The waiter called after her in confusion. Molly looked back once, Thomas's eyes boring into hers, a deadly calm on his face. She burst into the adjoining carriage and stumbled along the passageway, tears of pain and fear now falling down her cheeks as she felt her way toward their compartment.

The darkness was quickly crowding her vision and she felt the ground beneath her start to teeter. Desperately, she pulled on the nearest handle, praying it was their compartment, and fell inside just as oblivion took her.

* * *

'Molly!' John exclaimed in surprise when the door slid open suddenly. The young woman's eyes rolled back and she collapsed at their feet, her face eerily white. With his army-trained reflexes, he reached for her, but Sherlock was a beat ahead and caught her, gathering the princess into his arms. John grabbed her wrist and checked for a pulse, his eyes widening in horror at the frantic beat beneath his fingertips. The tinge of blue on her lips could only mean one thing.

'Poison,' they concluded at the same time.

'My bag,' Sherlock commanded and jerked his head at the overhead luggage, several of which contained Sherlock's portable laboratory and science experiments, which he (thankfully) never traveled without, should boredom overcome him. John tugged down the nearest one, hoping it was the right one, and popped the latches. With one arm wrapping Molly against his chest, Sherlock reached over and lifted the lid, glancing over the multitude of vials before plucking a small capped bottle and yanking the cork out with his teeth, spitting it to the side. Tilting Molly's head back against his shoulder, he pressed the bottle against her lips and poured half of the contents down her throat.

Several minutes passed in tense anticipation. John kept his fingers against her pulse, looking for any sign that the antidote was working. Sherlock cupped her cheek, patting it lightly, and pulled her eyelid up to examine the dilation of her pupils. He nodded as if satisfied and carefully laid her on the bench, balling up his wool coat as a pillow. 'She will live. Her would-be assassin, however, will not.'

Tucking his shirt into his trousers and straightening his waistcoat, Sherlock snatched John's pistol from its hiding place in the drop compartment of a suitcase.

John stood and laid a hand on Sherlock's arm with a frown. 'Don't do anything stupid, there may be more than one.'

'Nonsense, John.' Sherlock smirked. 'When have I ever done anything stupid?'

With a wink, the detective slid out into the hall, leaving John to shake his head and turn his attention their impromptu royal patient.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't been gone ten minutes when Molly stirred. She was still deathly pale and clearly in the midst of a waking nightmare. Her eyes flew open wide, staring at some unseen horror. John slid onto his knees next to her, pressing his hand against her forehead and whispering calming reassurances to her.

She fought against him, her head lolling back and forth as she began speaking incoherently. John knew that the antidote was working, but he desperately wished she did not have to suffer the consequences of the battle inside her body. Suddenly, she fell still and turned her head to look at him, her eyes bright in feverish delirium.

'Papa?' She whispered in a small voice.

John felt his heart break at the innocence and fear in her gaze. 'It's John, Molly. Remember me?'

Her brow furrowed and a tear escaped her eye and disappeared into her unbound hair. 'Where is Papa? He said he'd be here… he said he'd meet me on the train.'

John smiled sadly, but found he couldn't lie to her, not even when she was suffering from hallucinations induced by the poison. Instead, he just brushed his hand soothingly through her hair. Her memories were awakening and he knew the road ahead was going to be difficult for her, grieving a family she had forgotten for most of her life.

'Did James kill him?'

John flinched at the question and drew his hand back as if it had been burnt.

'James Moriarty?' John whispered, his eyes wide. He had been no more than fifteen when the Romanoff family had been executed by the radical, former advisor to the Tsar and he could still remember the terror that gripped the country at the slightest whisper of Moriarty's name.

'Papa said that James wasn't his friend anymore and to not trust him. I never did, James was scary.' She looked up at him with fear filled eyes. Even in her memory regression, Molly was proving to have been an observant child, with an understanding he couldn't fathom.

'They're gone, aren't they?' She whispered, tears now falling freely. 'Papa and Mama and Natasia… they're gone.'

John felt his heart break anew and pulled the princess to his chest, maneuvering to sit beside her on the bench and let her cry into his shirt. She wouldn't remember this when the fever broke; but he would give her what comfort her could now, as a brother might console a sister.

* * *

Sherlock ran his fingers through his curls and growled in agitation as he stalked back to the compartment. Nothing. He had searched each carriage thoroughly (he'd have to delete the memory of the couple in compartment 94 from his Mind Palace, as soon as possible) and failed to find Molly's would-be assassin.

He had examined the evidence in the dining car, questioning the sommelier and waiter, the other patrons, trying to determine who the man was that had accosted Molly. An older woman and her daughter were eager to embellish, claiming the young man was utterly smitten with the trampy girl to their delighted disgust, as though it was a scandalous bit of gossip. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but took their description of the man as most accurate, being the nosy pests they were. By his estimation, the red-haired man was Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right-hand assassin and directly responsible for the murders of the wife of Tsar Nicholas, as well as Princess Natasia.

But why Moran had not followed Molly to ensure she died from her consumption of the poison was baffling to the detective. Unless… Sherlock came to stop just outside their compartment. The only possible explanation. Whirling about, Sherlock broke into a run, jumping from carriage to carriage, knocking over other passengers without care. His heart was racing and adrenaline coursed through him like the purest of solutions. Finally, he came to the front of the train and burst through the door into the engine room.

'Hey, you can't be here!' The engineer shouted over the roar and clattering of coal being shoveled into the furnace.

Sherlock ignored the idiot and simply pulled him from his position at the window, the engineer too stunned to put up a fight. Leaning out into the rushing wind, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the pressure and felt his heart drop somewhere near his feet. Moran would not have given up unless he had a secondary plan to ensure Molly's demise. And the bridge crossing the chasm less than five miles ahead would be the perfect failsafe.

'You need to stop this train!' Sherlock shouted as he pulled himself back inside.

'What? Are you insane?!' The engineer bellowed, his face red from anger and the heat of the furnace. The men shoveling coal stopped to watch.

'Don't waste your breath arguing with me! You have less than five miles before we go plunging to our deaths!'

'What?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the retort on his lips died when they felt the train shudder just before a thunderous dull roar filled the air. He rushed back to the window and watched in horror as piece by piece, the bridge burned and caved in on itself, falling into the ravine below.

'Stop. The. Train!' He bellowed, shoving the engineer toward the window.

The man's eyes widened and he paled considerably. Suddenly jumping into action, he began barking orders to his men to stop shoveling coal and start emergency braking. Sherlock left them to their jobs, knowing that at the rate they were going, there was sufficient time to stop before the bridge. He rushed down the passageway, past people stumbling with the sudden loss of momentum, and slipped into their compartment.

John was sitting with Molly's head in his lap, tear tracks marring her sleeping face. Sherlock felt something around his heart clench at the sight, but he brushed it aside.

'Did you find him?' John whispered.

Sherlock shook his head and took a seat across from them, stumbling slightly as the train slowed down even more. John frowned and glanced at Sherlock in question.

'I found out _who_ he was. Sebastian Moran. But he's long gone, most likely having jumped the train when we made a slow ascent up a mountain. Before he left, though, he made sure Molly would die, by poison or not.'

'How?'

Sherlock quirked his eyebrow. 'By taking out the bridge pass.'

John's eyes widened in horror.

'Not to worry, I managed to convince the idiot of an engineer to stop in plenty of time,' Sherlock waved him off dismissively. 'But it looks like it's going to take us a bit longer to get to Paris than I had anticipated.'


	3. Someone Holds Me Safe and Warm

_A short, filler-ish chapter, yes, but oh just you loves wait for the next one. Just you wait. :) **Trigger warnings: self-cutting (Moriarty, not in a self-harm way, just his usual psychotic way)**_

* * *

Molly's fever had broken not long after the train had returned to the closest station, backing slowly the entire way, but she had remained steadfastly unconscious for several days, frown lines creasing her brow all the while as her mind struggled to rebuild the memory blocks the poison had eroded, desperately trying to protect her from the horror within.

When she had awoken, she had no memory of the poisoning or anything after falling asleep on him during the train ride. She had demanded to know what had happened, but Sherlock and John had agreed, the latter reluctantly, that frightening her would do no good and told her she had simply eaten something that made her sick and the medicine John had given her had made her sleep.

She hadn't believed them. No, Sherlock begrudgingly admitted, she was too intelligent to fall for a lie like that. But the strain on her body had exhausted her and she was too tired to argue, though she now watched them warily, catching the looks that passed between them. She never mentioned it, but her expressions spoke of how she noticed how they never gave her a moment's privacy, except for personal moments and even then, one of them stood at the door.

If they hadn't been paying her way to Paris, she would have left them the moment she awoke and realized she had lost nearly half a week. But there was something about their guard that made her feel safe and protected. She sometimes caught John staring at her in a mixture of awe and worry. A warm feeling in her chest expanded as she talked with him. She didn't have friends, being the eldest at the orphanage, or family, but John was quickly filling in the space in her heart that she always dreamed a brother might fill.

But Sherlock was a blank mask. At times, he seemed almost ignorant of her presence, and other times he would use her as an audience as he recounted countless tales of crimes he had solved and criminals he had caught, the light in his eyes growing whenever he noticed she was taking a keen interest.

He kept her close, sitting next to her as they traveled by car, then by train again, getting closer to the western border of Russia, never touching her purposefully, but often brushing against her. She tried to remember he was simply her Curmudgeonly Samaritan, but she couldn't fight the warmth spreading across her chest whenever their arms touched, making her heart pound and her mouth run dry.

She didn't know what she was going to do when they arrived in Paris, no name to find, nothing but a pendant around her neck. The thrill of the unknown pulled her, an excited fear that she was on her way to finding the answer to who she was.

But as they crossed into Poland, she was surprised to find that she would miss her traveling companions when they parted in Paris, a faint feeling of loss sweeping over her at the thought of bidding Sherlock goodbye.

* * *

Sherlock shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable, but the hard wooden bench in the back of the jostling truck was unforgiving. John had nodded off on one side of him, his chin bobbing against his chest with the motion of the truck. Curled into Sherlock's other side was a sleeping Molly.

He glared down at her, silently resenting that he had become a human pillow to the stubborn woman. A small, distant voice in his mind that he thought he had silenced long ago, protested at his resentment, placing the thought in his mind that wasn't it interesting how her soft, warm curves fit perfectly against his side.

He shook his head firmly to dislodge the unwelcome thought and stared out the slats of the truck bed at the passing greenery. They were nearly into Germany and the three weeks of travel were taking their toll on his mind. There was only so much reorganizing of his Mind Palace he could do to pass the time. They would have arrived in Paris by now, had they not decided to take various forms of travel to avoid Moran, who was sure to have discovered his attempts to kill Molly and destroy the train had failed. Molly was suspicious of his odd behavior after her illness, but to his relief, she seemed to trust him to the extent that she simply pursed her lips when he insisted on switching transportation and rolled her eyes as she followed him, muttering about his wishy-washy nature.

She really was a feisty little thing, he thought, with eyes that were either pools of molten chocolate beckoning him to her or flashing dangerously with angry fire while she volleyed his jabs with wit equal to his.

Sherlock's face distorted in disgust at the sudden thought and he turned slightly from her. When had he become as soft and poetic as John?

They still had a long journey ahead of them and it wouldn't do to start thinking of the princess as anything more than a pest and his ticket to notoriety. With the discovery of the lost princess to his name, he would establish himself as the greatest detective across all of Russia and Western Europe; boredom would never be an issue again with cases falling at his feet from governments and nations seeking his genius.

Yes, he would bring her to her grandmother, the Dowager Empress, and be rid of her to continue his life, with the added bonus of being immortalized as the detective who found the lost princess.

He ignored the tight feeling spreading across his chest at the thought of leaving her in Paris and not seeing her again, not bickering with her, not seeing her eyes light up with interest when he spoke to her of his experiments.

He leaned his head back against the wood plank and closed his eyes tightly.

Caring was a weakness. And caring for an amnesiac princess with a psychopath trying to kill her at every turn would be the worst mistake he could make.

Molly shifted in her sleep and turned her face further into his arm, curling tighter against his side. He looked down and begrudgingly felt his heart melt a bit at the uninhibited picture she presented, her mouth gaping open, her hair falling about her face in tangles, and every so often snoring softly.

Yes, caring for Molly would be a huge mistake.

One he was dangerously close to making.

* * *

'If I want a job done right, I have to do it myself, apparently,' Moriarty sighed heavily and straightened his waistcoat, rolling his sleeves down and fastening the cufflinks smoothly. Smoothing his hand over his hair, he winked at his reflection in the puddle of blood on the floor.

Moran's eyes stared up at him, unseeing, his final act a pathetic plea for his worthless life.

Moriarty stepped over the body of the former assassin and walked to the weapon's cabinet, selecting a curved dagger with emeralds embedded in the handle. He slid his thumb along the blade, grinning at the line of blood pooling in its wake. He tilted his head and held his hand out in front of him, watching the blood slowly trail down his palm before disappearing beneath his shirt cuffs. He grinned hollowly.

'I'm coming, Molly. And this time, you won't escape your fate.'


End file.
